


do you know me still?

by orphan_account



Category: All New X-Factor, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Arguing, Cheating, Drinking to Cope, Infidelity, M/M, Other, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:00:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7804555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Of course they’re not recent,” Remy says, rolling his eyes. “Dunno if you know this, <i>cher,</i> but Remy’s got a reputation. <i>Had</i> a reputation--before you. Some with the ladies, some with gentlemen, but all in Remy’s bed.” </p><p>Pietro must make some face, because Remy laughs, hard enough to loosen his grip on Figaro, who begins to eat his food after he wriggles loose. “Don’t worry. He had the sheets cleaned. And besides, all that’s done now that you’re here, Pietro.” He cups Pietro’s face in his big, big hands, and looks him in the eyes. “I promise.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	do you know me still?

**Author's Note:**

> (title based on dark tower by miniature tigers.)
> 
> i feel like a lot of people ship quickbit but don't really explore that remy is actually kind of a jackass and pietro is kind of emotionally stunted, so i wanted to write some infidelity fic based on all new x factor.
> 
> depending on how i feel, i might do some more writing for this kind of thing. i love quickbit i promise

It’s never officially agreed between them, but eventually, Pietro moves in. 

Remy’s floor becomes their floor; Pietro’s mug hangs on a hook above the coffee machine, his clothes have a place in the chest of drawers that Remy is not using, and his contact solution sits in the middle of the congregation of Remy’s expensive cologne bottles. The shoes he takes for his morning jog are in the pile at the front door, where the cats can paw at the loose white shoestrings.

Slowly, carefully, it becomes home.

Pietro does a good job, for a while, of holding Remy’s attention. Sure, they snark at each other, and at some points it becomes almost routine, but there is always something to spice it up. He is shy in public, even with Remy, and doesn’t display affections very well even in private, so he’s a puzzle, a rubik's cube, a mind game.

For a while, it is enough for the pair of them to mark off steps in the relationship checklist. They hold hands, kiss, become an item in front of the other X-Factor members. They explore each other on a set of soft maroon sheets. They share a blanket on Remy’s sofa.

Sometimes, Pietro puts his feet on Remy’s lap and Remy rubs them absently, one hand lost in a bowl of popcorn. He tosses some of the kernels every so often so Pietro can catch them in his mouth, and both laugh when one hits him in the eye or on his big nose. Sometimes they catch on a wet part of his lip and stick, and those times, Remy reaches over with his whole body and kisses the kernels off of his mouth.

Other times, Remy will nap on Pietro’s lap, and Pietro’s fingertips move faster than any other part of him, featherlight as they weave and unweave braids into Remy’s thick hair or simply run their fingernails against his scalp. Pietro watches sped-up movies on his laptop with the sound off and the subtitles running as Remy snores softly, kneading his hand against Pietro’s muscular thigh like a cat.

Somehow, even though Pietro knows he should, he doesn’t stop.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, Remy?” Pietro comes out of the bedroom with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, clutching a thong in his fingertips. 

Remy is at the cats’ food bowls, carefully shovelling scoops of food inside each one while trying to keep the cats out of the way. Remy has Figaro in one arm while he lifts Oliver by his stomach with a shoe. Lucifer licks his paws and watches from a chair. “Yes,  _ lapin? _ ”

Pietro rolls his eyes, tosses the underwear onto the countertop and hoists himself up beside them. “Tell me these aren’t recent,” he says, folding one of his legs underneath his body as he traces down Remy’s arm.

“Of course they’re not recent,” Remy says, rolling his eyes. “Dunno if you know this,  _ cher _ , but Remy’s got a reputation.  _ Had _ a reputation--before you. Some with the ladies, some with gentlemen, but all in Remy’s bed.” 

Pietro must make some face, because Remy laughs, hard enough to loosen his grip on Figaro, who begins to eat his food after he wriggles loose. “Don’t worry. He had the sheets cleaned. And besides, all that’s done now that you’re here, Pietro.” He cups Pietro’s face in his big, big hands, and looks him in the eyes. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Pietro wakes up in the middle of the night thirsty. He moves carefully to avoid waking Remy up, though he a heavy sleeper anyway, and pulls himself out of bed and slips into the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water and stretches as it fills up, the room illuminated by the blinking light of the answering machine. He furrows his brows; nobody calls on the answering machine because Remy has a cell phone. He drains the water from the glass and places it into the sink for later, because he sleeps in fifteen minute intervals and, without fail, wakes up thirsty.

He knows he shouldn’t check it, but before he can stop himself, he’s pressing down the blinking red button and a long beep rings out across the empty house. Lucifer winds in between his legs as he leans against the countertop.

_ You have one new message _ , the answering machine chirps at him in an automated voice. It reads out the phone number and time it was received (around two in the morning; Pietro checks the clock and it reads two fifteen) before the message is played. 

“ _ Hey _ , Remy,” a woman purrs into the receiver, voice drunk and soft against the background noise, maybe a bar or a coffee shop. “I was just thinking about you, handsome. I was thinking about asking--are you coming into town any time soon? I got your message a few days ago and wanted to know if stopping by was still in your itinerary. Call me back soon, okay?” She makes a kissing noise at the receiver before the message cuts off, mid-smooch.

Pietro watches the blinking red light as it stops blinking and becomes a solid red burn in the otherwise dark kitchen. He pets Figaro’s head and lets Oliver rub his little grey head against his forearm, trying to catch his breath. It feels like the world is spinning. It feels like everything, for once, is happening too fast. It feels terrible.

All he can think is that he and Remy haven’t been dating for a few days. They’ve been dating for  _ weeks. _ Pietro walks to the sink, picks up his cup, and pours himself some of the vodka from their--from  _ Remy’s _ \--extensive alcohol shelf. He walks from the kitchen to the long white couch and turns on the television, just low enough to hear the sound. He wraps his arms around his knees and watches the commercials fly by until the sun comes up or he passes out. He doesn’t remember which happens first.

 

* * *

 

“I’m just  _ saying _ ,” Wanda gestures with her fork, watching Pietro shovel pancakes into his mouth with a look of mild disgust. “If you didn’t want someone who you thought might cheat on you, why would you pick  _ him _ ? That’s like dating dad if you wanted someone who was going to stay in one place for more than a week.”

“All thoughts of dating dad aside?” Pietro asks around a mouthful of pancakes. Wanda makes a face. “It’s not--I don’t think he’s cheating on me! Maybe it’s just me being paranoid.” Pietro puts his fork down and leans his head on his hand, watching Wanda swirl a piece of egg into the syrup from her french toast.

“Then why bring it up at all?”

“I don’t know! I thought maybe you’d know what to do, what to say! There’s only one person who also separated from his partner, but there’s no fucking  _ way _ I’d ever ask dad for relationship advice with  _ Gambit _ .” Pietro sighs. “Haven’t I disappointed him enough already by marrying an inhuman and pretty much losing custody of his grandchild on the moon?”

Wanda wrinkles her nose. “I wish you wouldn’t say you disappoint him.”

“Why? You know it’s true. The last time we saw each other on Rosh Hashanah all he did was shake my hand.”

“What’s so wrong with that?”

“I hadn’t seen him since  _ last _ Rosh Hashanah.”

 

* * *

 

Pietro knows he should probably call it off or confront him about the messages that Remy  _ keeps _ getting, every night, without fail, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Remy goes away on trips for days at a time, says he’s going to work something out with either Xavier or the Thieves Guild; every time he returns, the amount of messages left on the answering machine spikes. 

Maybe Remy knows he knows, or maybe Pietro is being more standoffish because he knows, but their relationship becomes… strained. Remy doesn’t cling to him in the night anymore, instead rolling over when Pietro reads in bed. They don’t hold hands when they’re out together, when they’re among friends, when they’re alone. 

They bicker, and venom replaces affection in the snapping they do at each other. They fight over everything. The cats claw up Pietro’s shoelace and suddenly it becomes a big deal between them because Remy won’t buy another replacement shoelace. Pietro breaks a dish washing them and drying them too quickly and Remy freaks out because the shattered glass could have hurt someone. Pietro has the TV too loud when Remy wants to sleep.

But every so often there’s respite; Remy pulls Pietro in for a quick good luck kiss before they go on a mission, cups Pietro’s face in his hands like he’s making a promise, and tells him to be safe. To be careful. There’s something in his eyes, but before Pietro can make any sense of it, he’s stalked off with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trenchcoat.

Of course, then it goes right back to shit.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s never officially agreed between them, but Pietro has overstayed his welcome. He moves out when Remy is away on a trip, to where, he doesn’t know. He stopped asking a long time ago.

The cats swirl around his legs as he stands at the dresser Remy never used and pulls his clothes into the duffel bag he’d retrieved from his floor earlier. There’s no order, really, just his hands moving faster than the human eye can perceive as he watches the bag fill up with absolute dejection. He’s still in his pajamas. After he finishes his dressers, he goes for his dirty clothes, his socks, his toothbrush, and then that’s really everything he’s ever had in Remy’s home. Their home.

As he’s leaving, he slips his shoes on at the front door and realizes that everything he’s ever put in Remy’s apartment has been unobtrusive--his shoes migrated to the other side of the door. His clothes and Remy’s never touched. They didn’t even use the same toothpaste. He gives one last look at the apartment behind him and realizes that nothing even looks different. He hasn’t even left a single mark on the entire floor save the blue and green throw blanket he bought as a present. 

 

* * *

 

_ “What’s this,  _ mon petit lapin _?” Remy presses his nose against the curls at the top of Pietro’s head from over the back of the sofa as he examines the meticulously wrapped package sitting on the coffee table. “A present for Remy? You shouldn’t have.” _

_ Pietro flushes and sits up straighter as Remy lets his arms fall down Pietro’s chest and waist, one hand stroking at his hip as a mop of brown hair settles at his shoulder, stray hairs tickling his cheek. “Well,” he manages, voice cracking. “It’s not really for _ just _ you, I guess. It’s… is it weird if I say it’s for us?” His leg is shaking so fast it’s rattling the coffee cups on the table in front of them, and Remy reaches out without hesitation and runs his fingertips along Pietro’s knee. “I. Just open it?” _

_ Remy hops over the couch and stretches wide, one arm wrapping around Pietro’s bony shoulders as the other cradles the package in his lap. “Sure thing, hoss. Let’s see what this bad boy has inside, mm? For us.” _

_ Pietro bites his lip as Remy rips the wrapping paper off the box, which prompts Oliver and Lucifer to come over and bat at it absently. Remy chuckles a little before lifting the lid and pulling out the blanket. It’s some soft cashmere thing, a deep blue that fades into a teal green. Remy holds it up and smiles, happiness lighting up his whole face. “You got this for me?” _

_ “Well,” Pietro shrugs. “We couldn’t fit under any of the blankets you already had in your apartment, so I thought it’d be easier if I just bought one huge one. If you don’t like it, the cats can sleep on it.” _

_ “Pietro,” Remy says, tracing his thumb across the fabric’s fading colors. “I love it.” _

 

* * *

 

“Papa?” Luna adjusts her grip on her father’s hand as they scale Serval Industries’ residential area, looking away from the floors passing by the pair of them and up at Pietro. His face is soft but something else is there, and if Luna notices, she doesn’t say anything. She just leans in closer, her head coming up to his stomach now, and presses her face into his side. “Why are we going up so high?”

“What do you mean, kiddo?” Pietro furrows his brow. “We’re going up to my floor.”

Luna frowns, looking up at him again. “No, this is too high. Last time I came we only went up a few floors to your house. Don’t you still live there? With the cats?”

Pietro pales, hand stilling from where it was stroking at Luna’s soft hand in his. “Oh,” he says, foot scuffing at the floor of the elevator. “That. Er.” He looks up, down, to the side, anywhere to find the words to explain to Luna without breaking her poor heart. “The, um. I had to move. They weren’t my cats anyway, princess. Just a friend’s.”

“Papa, you and Remy weren’t just friends. I’m not stupid.” She rolls her eyes. She looks so much like her grandpa Charles when she does it, too, so she must have been visiting Erik recently. “Did something happen? Did you have a fight?”

Aw, jeez. And she’s giving him those big wet eyes, too, eyebrows raised innocently like she knows she’ll get what she wants. Pietro makes note to tell Crystal not to let Luna visit Opa and Grandpa without one of them present anymore. “No, baby, that’s not what happened. Me and Remy didn’t… have a fight.” 

He sighs, takes a deep breath, and sighs again. Things like this… it’s hard for him to articulate even mundane things, but this is even worse. “I guess… I guess me and Remy just don’t like each other enough to live together anymore, yeah?” He smiles down at her. “We’re still friends, but we’re not like we used to be is all.”

“Why not?”

Fuck. “Sometimes that’s what happens to grown-ups.” He ruffles her hair. “But it’ll never happen to you, princess. You’re too pretty and too smart for anybody to ever think you’re less than perfect.”

Luna nods. “Plus, if they get angry at me I can just make them happy again, right?” She beams up at him.

“Okay, kiddo,” Pietro says, grunting as he lifts her up on his hip and the elevator dings and opens up to his floor. “No more spending time with Opa when me or mommy aren’t there to moderate, okay?”

 

* * *

 

It’s almost two months before Pietro realizes he’s missing some things. He reaches for his contact solution in the evenings and finds it missing, or he reaches for his mug in the mornings and his hands catch only air.

Shit.

The contact solution is nothing. He can go without that, or he can buy a new bottle. The mug is different. He curls up in a chair at the island in his kitchen and puts his head in his hands. The mug is a gift from his father, the last Hanukkah gift he’d gotten a few years back. It was a nice memory, unwrapping his ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug while Luna cheered and compared gifts with Tommy and Billy. He’d gotten choked up at the time; the idea that he’d at least been a good enough father for Erik to notice, to be  _ proud _ of him for it… well, it was enough to get him out of his chair and into his father’s arms, trying to inconspicuously sniffle into his sweater.

(Of course, Charles had broken the tension by accidentally burning every single latke he was heating--in the microwave--but that memory was still there. Flickering candles, children laughing, his father’s wrinkled old smile.)

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s poised in front of Remy’s door, fingers already having rapped against the door. What? When had he even  _ gotten _ here?

He prickles and his blood runs a little colder when he hears a shuffling from the other side of the door. One of the cats meows sleepily; Pietro’s sure it’s Figaro, and that makes him a little sadder. He wants to run, but his shoes seem bolted to the floor. He takes a deep breath as the sliding chain lock slips from the latch and the door swings open.

Whoever is at the door, Pietro doesn’t recognize her. She’s someone he’s never seen before, but she’s wearing one of Remy’s shirts and socks and, he’s pretty sure, nothing else. She smiles at him cordially before scratching behind Figaro’s ears. (So he’d been right. It was Fig.)

“Can I help you?” She smiled up at him, straight white teeth and pink lips and blonde hair.

Pietro grits his teeth for a minute, then puts on his best apologetic face. “No, shoot, sorry, I thought this was someone else’s apartment.” He shrugs, laughs, and rubs the back of his neck. “These elevators around here are so confusing, you know?”

She laughs, and Figaro paws at her to try and get at Pietro. He mewls, and Pietro holds out his arms for the poor kitty, who settles into his arms much better than in hers and immediately begins purring. “Wow, I’ve never seen him like that with anyone.”

“Oh, I’m just a cat person, I guess.” He lets Figaro out of his arms to pad back into the apartment and smiles at the woman. “Anyway, sorry for waking you up so early. It’s so easy to get lost in this fucking place.”

She laughs again. “Don’t I know it! I went around the whole building before I got here last night.”

A voice calls out from the apartment, and Pietro’s heart stops. “ _ Cheri _ , who was at the door?”

“Anyway, uh, see you around!” Pietro exclaims, and just as suddenly as he’s there, he’s gone. He gets back to his apartment floor and collapses once he gets through his door, sliding down against it and burying his head in his hands.

He’ll just get a new mug.

  
  



End file.
